


Back in Jack (the Third)

by apiphile



Series: Jack In... [4]
Category: Blackadder, Torchwood
Genre: Crack, Crossover, M/M, blow-job, ridiculously tight pants, time-travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/pseuds/apiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's attempts to return to the 21st Century start moving in the right direction again, but he's still a long way from the right era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back in Jack (the Third)

  
_Crash_, said a pile of silverware as Jack landed in it.

"_Ow_," Jack said, more affronted than hurt, and grabbed a soup tureen to cover his genitals from potential savaging.

"It looks like his royal fathead has been putting opium in his port again," said a lazy, unruffled voice from the direction of a smoky but blessedly hot fire. It sounded extremely familiar – there were qualities of nasal bastardry to it that could only come from one set of adenoids –

"_Blackadder_," Jack snarled, forgetting that clutching a soup tureen to his nuts wasn't the most _secure_ of positions for beginning a righteously angry attack, "you _bastard_."

"We've met," Blackadder said in some surprise. "Funny, I don't remember _you_. Then again, a lot of naked men have been running through his royal nitwit's kitchens of late and you all start to look the same after a while. What do you _want_?"

"Trousers?" Jack suggested desperately.

"BALDRICK," Blackadder shouted, and a differently-attired silage heap with a new constellation of warts on it appeared from one of the danker doorways. It was otherwise a dead ringer for Lord Blackadder's retainer.

"Yes Mr. B?"

"Go and fetch the breeches his royal idiocy threw away this morning for not being 'jolly well skin-scrapingly close-fit enough'," Blackadder instructed, putting his feet up on the kitchen table and peeling an apple with a short knife that seemed to appear from his clothing without the intervention of any hands.

It was a calculated threat, but Jack had other things on his mind. "… Why are you dressed as a butler?" he asked, as the silage heap returned with a pair of ostentatious trousers. They looked like they had to be painted on to one, and Jack had some serious difficulty getting into them.

While he struggled manfully with the light blue paisley, Blackadder rolled his eyes and said in a put-upon tone:

"Oh _God_. He's picked up a real intellectual this time."

Blackadder addressed Jack in a Speaking To Idiots And Royalty voice, "Because … I _am_ … a … but-ler."

Baldrick peered at Jack – who was having some problems getting his new trousers to do up without changing his views on castration quite drastically – and asked, "would you like an apple, sir?"

Blackadder sighed. "You don't have to say 'sir' to him, Baldrick, he's a _rent boy._"

Jack stopped in mid-button and registered his dissent. "I am _not_," he said in a strangled tone, mentally adding _anymore_ in a less scandalised manner. The trousers were being distinctly unkind to his testicles, although, he suspected, they were doing wonders for his bottom.

"Oh _really_?" Blackadder didn't seem convinced. "What are you, then? Royal Navy, Special Buggery Division?" He appeared to ruminate on this question for a while and added, "which from what I've heard runs all the way from that one-armed nancy to Roger Bholmondley, the 'surprisingly limber cabin boy with the bottom like two peaches'."

"Pretty much," Jack agreed. His stomach rumbled, but he dared not eat while these hellishly restrictive trousers were straining over his waist, and Jack was pretty sure he'd _lost_ weight recently, too. "Captain Jack Harkness, Royal Navy," he suggested, giving Blackadder a long and meaningful look. Jack threw all the weight of persuasion he currently had behind that look, and Blackadder seemed to accept it.

High above his head, a small brass bell on a spring began to jangle ferociously. "Ah," Blackadder said sourly, "I see his lordship has revived from his literary port pursuits." He got to his feet very slowly. "I suppose I'd better go and see what the inbred nincompoop wants."

Jack wondered if badmouthing one's superiors was a genetic trait and if so how anyone in the Blackadder dynasty survived for long enough to pass it on. He glanced at Blackadder, who was glaring at the still-clattering bell as though it was the fabled chimes of doom, and decided it was the weaselness. Weasels always came out of things okay; Jack had been relying on that for what was _literally_ centuries now.

"You too, 'Captain'," Blackadder said, starting up the stairs to the basement door. "The Prince will want to see who he was horsewhipping last night, because it's about as likely as a virgin in Westminster that he'll _remember_."

Jack followed Blackadder into an exquisitely-furnished and definitely Regency corridor, and as the door closed almost silently behind him he mused, "I didn't think Prince George was a … er … sodomite."

"He's not," Blackadder said, or rather sneered. "His royal drunkenness enjoys chasing naked men through the palace with a horsewhip in an entirely _platonic_ fashion." He didn't sound like he believed it either. "It reminds him of Eton," Blackadder smirked, "that _bastion_ of heterosexuality, inhabited by Lord Bertie Bummer Rimjob of Arsewick, who fags for the future Earl of Bottomly."

Jack couldn't help snorting at that. "That's insane."

"You do _know_ who his father is?" Blackadder pointed him out as they rather conveniently passed a portrait of the gentlemen in question. "King George the Third? Mad King George? King 'It's Perfectly Normal To Make An Orange Tree Minister of the Treasury, whoopsie Mister Badger' George of England?"

"It runs in the family," Jack concluded. A thought struck him. "What about you?"

"I am as sane as a man who works for that prancing tit can be, I assure you," Blackadder sad dryly. They came to a half before some large, slightly Oriental-looking doors that were pulled tightly shut.

"That's not what I was referring to," Jack said in a honeyed voice. He was in no mood to tangle with more demented English royalty and if his hunch was right _this_ should get him out of it nicely, at least for a while. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and the obscenely tight breeches creaked dangerously over his buttocks.

To Jack's relief, Blackadder's eyes all but bulged from his skull. "Entirely for the girls," he squawked. "Manly man type here. Completely unwhoopsie. Very much all …" he trailed off as Jack absently rubbed his chest with the palm of his hand and smiled rather indiscreetly.

"Blackadder!" Came a voice from beyond the locked door. It sounded as though it had been feasting on socks and hadn't the wit to tie its own shoes. "I say, Blackadder! Blackadder! Bladder! I can't find my bally trousers! Blackadder!"

Blackadder glanced at the doors, and back at Jack, who had somehow succeeded in getting his fingertips suggestively under the brutally close waist of his borrowed trousers (although how he was going to get them _out_ gain he wasn't quite sure) and was turning the most lascivious expression he possessed on poor, poor Blackadder.

There was a brief flurry of movement, and Jack found himself winded, and in a cupboard. A shelf was digging into his spine, and Blackadder was making a spirited and in Jack's opinion highly _practiced_ attempt to get his murderously tight trousers off him.

"Not one word," Blackadder snapped as one of the pearlescent buttons pinged away into the dusty darkness.

"Not even if it's 'more, more, oh god, please'?" Jack asked somewhat snidely.

Even in the dark of the cupboard the look the butler threw him was waspish. "Do you _want_ to be hanged for sodomy?"

"I hear it gives you a lovely erection," Jack smirked. He also heard it hurt like crazy and the chance of instant death was almost none, but he felt that might an adverse effect on the mood of seduction he was trying to instil.

"Sh," Blackadder instructed irritably, and yanked Jack's trousers off in one fabric-tearing go.

Freed from its cloth prison, Jack's prick was in some severe hurry to harden up – all the blood rushed out of his head and into his groin, making him giddy.

Although not as giddy as he got when Blackadder – already at waist height – dropped to one knee like he was being knighted and took the whole of Jack's prick into his mouth at once. In fact, he got so giddy he nearly fell down and was only saved by the shelf of probably priceless and now almost certainly _worthless_ china ornaments.

Blackadder had the kind of suction they wouldn't be able to reproduce mechanically until 1971. If this was the first time the butler had fellated someone then Jack was a Frenchman. And he was reasonably sure he wasn't, on account of the French becoming extinct in around 4530. Jack tilted his head back into the ruins of a Wedgewood liondog and exhaled noisily.

Much harder and the man was going to strip the skin from his prick, but at this rate … Jack felt a hand snake round and stroke what his old school pals had always euphemistically (and inaccurately) referred to as "no man's land". _Someone_ was evidently in a hurry.

Jack said to the air above the butler's head, "You've done this before."

Blackadder froze, poked Jack viciously in the thigh, and went on sucking like an industrial pump. Jack felt his conscious thoughts start to muddy, but he soldiered on:

"I wonder who it was," he gasped, "some stable hand – ng – or a sailor – ah – or your _master_ in there – " the sudden scrape of teeth over the line of his frenum told Jack he'd hit upon the truth, and incidentally made his head spin. "Entirely platonic my perfectly-formed ass," Jack said smugly, and he came … and went.

"What the …" Blackadder exclaimed. One minute his mouth had been filling up with seed and now it and its owner were nowhere to be found, leaving Blackadder with an erection, a pair of highly despoilt trousers and a vague sense of guilt.

On the other hand, if that's what praying for a bit of rumpy pumpy got him, he was going to have to restart his pleas for cash church.

From someone other than the Arch Horse-Fondler of Canterbury, even.


End file.
